Sweet Silence
by Bittersweet Lies
Summary: Even the darkest skies have their stars. But what if the stars die;does the darkness just fade away? With the turn of each page,I can feel the stars burning out again as they did so long ago, and I fear,when I reach the last page, I may not have any left.
1. Chapter 1

Memoirs of Regret

Chapter1

The Little Black Book

I restlessly swished the milky brown tea around the cup with the gilded spoon, though I could not consume anything at the moment. I felt as if my stomach was eating me from the inside out and I silently squeezed the armrest of my chair.

Nervousness tumbled about my mind like a bowling ball, destroying all other thoughts before I had time to even recognize them. Only ghosts, which I could not fully grasp within my pale, slender fingers, were left behind.

I gazed intently at the black book in front of me. So innocent looking, yet I could not bring myself to even reach out a hand for it. The book stared back at me with mocking eyes, ridiculing my fear and shame; daring me to pry it's cover open.

I looked away. I felt weakened and small, sitting alone in my chair, compressing myself to the smallest I could squeeze. Instantly, my motives for trying to become smaller were questioned. But I brushed aside my trivial stalling and reluctantly pulled my gaze back to the book. Back to the life I had tried so hard to forget.

It was more than just a memory. I lived it every night in my dreams, or my nightmares, until I almost believed in its continuance when I awoke the next morning. Many times I had opened my eyes to believe that I was once again 17, once again living a life where my worries were so trivial and yet immensely dramatic and worrisome at the time. If only I had known of the misfortunes that were to come.

Perhaps, if I were wiser, I never would have allowed my parents to plan such a thing for me, tradition or not. Perhaps I could have warned him of the danger he was getting himself into before it was too late. Perhaps I could have stopped him from his ultimate decision. Or maybe I could have stopped myself . . . from falling in love.

My hopes fell mercilessly to the floor, shattering before they had a chance to become anything but a wish. Because all is in the past now. Or really in the book that lies before me. And it cannot be changed, no matter how I wish it. Though I continue to linger on some chance that I will not be forced to melt into my diary once more.

My mother once told me that curiosity killed the cat. The cat may have died an unsatisfied death but it is not curiosity that lures me to this dreaded novel of my life, it is my assignment. My mission, so to speak, and though failure to deliver this book to the Order had not been discussed, I knew innately that I could not fail. Still, I wondered, had I not already failed?

I shook my head, an effort to shake away these menacing questions. I had struggled with these answers so many times that I had deemed them unanswerable. Perhaps they all held their solutions, but it was _I_ who denied myself the answers.

My spoon suddenly fell to the floor but I did not go to pick it up. I do not remember putting it down nor leaving it near the edge but this does not worry me now. I cannot concentrate with my written emotions lying so close to me, screaming out my name in desperate agony as if they too feel the constant torture of my past life.

I was not told that I would have to read my diary again, and in truth, I do not know exactly the reason why I sit here today, forcing myself into it's pages. But I do know that I could not allow it to be taken without saying goodbye. And remembrance seemed the best way. Maybe I shall find Voldemort's weakness in my writing, though I doubt it to be true. I spent most of my time writing, not of him, but of one of his followers.

I remember Dumbledore's words distinctly now. For some reason I know not, they have chosen to jump to my mind and I sink in the memory once more, as I have done several times since their actual occurance.

"This is of crucial importance to the order," he said solemnly. I looked away from his probing gaze. 

_"I do not know how I could possibly help you," I lied quietly. I had subtley grown quite good at lying over the years._

_He was silent for a moment," I believe you do."_

_I would have smiled, if not for the seriousness of the situation. How Dumbledore was able to read me so well, I would never know._

_"As always," I sighed," You are right, but I do not feel comfortable sharing my past with you like this."_

_"Of course, I would never expect you to do anything you do not desire," he reassured me quietly," But, I believe that there are other ways of showing me what it is difficult to say."_

_I looked up at him for the first time, curious," A penesieve?" I asked. Annoyance, at my imprudence for not thinking of it before, crossed my face but was instantly gone._

_He nodded," Yes, but there is also something else, that I believe to be in your possession, attracting my attention."_

_Foolishly, I tried to lie once more, conceal the one bit of my past that I wanted desperately to stay hidden, and if possible, forever lost._

_"I know not of what you speak," I said smoothly._

_He smiled," A book?" he questioned," Perhaps a diary?"_

_I almost gasped, his interrogation for details surprised even me. It was obvious that he was using legilamency but the quickness at which he gathered information and the invisibility of him in my mind was shocking._

_"It seems that you have remembered such an article?" he mused but instantly turned somber, realizing the risk he ran with humor. I ignored it._

_"So it would seem," I sighed," Yes, it is true, the diary you speak of exists but-"_

_"Ms. Bellant, let me assure you that the contents of the journal will be for my eyes alone and I will not allow others, not even from the Order, to know that there is such a diary,"_

_I sighed, trapped," Fine Albus, I shall bring it to you when I can," I answered vaguely and he nodded, ignoring the temptation to persist further._

_I turned to go, leaving him behind, but he stopped me._

_"Ms. Bellant?" he asked lightly. Surprise that I had heard his quiet summon itched at my mind for a moment but he continued to speak._

_"Thank you," he said quietly," I know what a burden this is for you but know that you will feel better when you will no longer have to carry it alone. It is true that some secrets were never meant to be found, but there are some, deeper still, that must be shared or we risk an age very much like Lord Voldemort's early reign."_

_I shuddered at the mention of His name though I held no fear of it. Only hatred, for the monster who had dragged my loved ones down with him. The monster that had torn everything I loved away from me. There was a hesitant silence as my tongue struggled to voice everything I had been slowly drowning in, but I bit it back and continued down the hallway, away from the last man I would trust with my secret._

I looked up suddenly from my reminiscing, slightly surprised to see my journal still sitting on the table staring at me. How it had originally gotten there was clouded from my memory, I was not myself when I had awoken and therefore had felt no trouble taking the book from the box it had been hidden in.

I had carried it slowly down the stairs as if afraid I might drop it and shatter the already broken soul inside. I had not opened the book. I think that was when my common sense had overridden my dream and I had, in a sense, awoken. Not even in my dream state had I dared to open its bending cover and now, here I was, stalling from the moment my fingertips would soil the edges of each ink stained paper.

A sudden unknown confidence and anticipation surged up from somewhere inside of me and I lifted the diary into my lap. I could feel it's imaginary weight pressing down on my back, a burden I would carry for what had seemed like the rest of my life. But would there really be a difference when I woke up, knowing that I did not hold this knowledge alone? Such thoughts were tempting, but lies all the same. No, I gave Dumbledore the diary not because of my need to loosen the weight I carried, but because I wanted him to find me.

I wanted them to find out of my betrayal and to send him after me . . . to kill me. I would stand confidently in front of the door and wait for him. I will die held within his eyes for I know he was—is not a coward and would never think to kill me in my sleep.

I have lived this life for far too long anyway. I no longer wish to endure this nightmare for it will only become worse, Voldemort or not. His followers and ideas would endure much longer than he himself, whether Dumbledore wanted to believe it mattered not. It was the truth.

I reached a stiff but gentle hand to the cover below me. There is nothing written on the deep black leather cover, though I am sure I once engraved my name across the middle. Only small lines, scratched into the cover so long ago, remained on the black leather. I stroked two slender fingers across the invisible space where my name once resided as if in an effort to bring the letters back to life.

The book opened at my touch, the first few blank pages whipping past before coming to a stop. Here, I could see my name written in fine calligraphy at the top right corner of the page, though it was not my hand that had written it. His name curled around my mind lazily.

In the middle of the page was the 'title' I had bestowed upon my book at my immature age of 17. It was obvious that I had written it, even so many years later, and I almost smiled at my attempted calligraphy. No doubt his hand had encompassed mine, helping me to draw the looping lettering. Warm thoughts accompany that memory and I savor them, for it is one of the only joyful memories I will meet in my journey to discover my past once more.

The page turns before me, crinkling with age, and I am swallowed by the thoughts I have leaked out onto these pages. Staining it like the ink that stains this paper, though my words will not disappear, even long after the ink itself has melted away.

I dive headfirst into my story, leaving no time for reluctance or consideration. Rash decisions were the only ones I ever made in my life, wise though I thought I was. It would not be 'till later that I would realize my ignorance. It is strange to look back on your life and feel the familiar clench in your stomach as if you will live that day again tomorrow. I feel this way now because I will be most literally living my greatest mistakes over again and this time, I fear they will show no mercy. Hiding from the truth could no longer be my salvation, as I had only forced myself back to this book to_ find_ the truth and possibly, the lies.

The year is 1968 and am a 17 year old mistake . . .


	2. Chapter 2

A Slytherin's Trust

Chapter 2

Take Your Pick

**Silence**_ noun_

A refusal, failure or inability to speak and express oneself

I am not familiar with the ways of an arranged marriage, as they had not survived past the short reign of Voldemort's evil. Though there are rumors that purebloods are still being 'bred' through arranged marriages, it is unlikely that I will ever chance upon one again. I find this slightly disturbing. How could a custom I had thought to be so old and unbreakable as a 17 year old, disappear within the space of only a few decades?

Maybe if I had been born later, I would never have encountered my misfortune, I, along with the rest of the wizarding world, may, perhaps, have been spared and none of this would have happened. But as I gaze into the book in my hands, I know that it has happened and that no amount of wishing will bring a change in the way my past has unfolded—entwining itself so intricately within his—for I have already wished it a thousand times over.

_S_

August 7, 1974 

My thoughts are echoing with my verdict, and I feel as if I have actually been sentenced to a lifetime in jail. Though I did not know that my fiancé was to effectively ruin my—and many others including his own—life, I had felt from the moment I had laid eyes on him that he was a man of misfortune. Yet even if fate had blessed me with a short moment of sight into our future together, what would I be able to do? There was nothing I could say or do short of killing myself that would spare me from this marriage. And at the age of sixteen I was far from being suicidal; at least for the time being.

My gaze immediately snapped over to him, almost accusing, as if it were his fault that we were to be married. I found myself all the more angrier when he did not respond to my glare, nor even recognize I was looking at him. It would have been impossible to not see me from such close range and the glare I was sending could have frozen fire. It was obvious, he was ignoring me.

Or maybe my mind was running away with me. If he had been half as shocked as I when he had heard the news than he would most probably not notice the ugly looks I was sending him. I doubt I would have noticed when I was told; all I remember from that night was the soft cotton of my pillow and the burning salt of my tears.

Though, if he was really shocked, he showed no evidence of that upon his face. He was placidly calm, so much that I suspected once again that he had planned the whole thing; knew of this all the time and was out to ruin me for some insane and mysterious reason. I was foolish and immature, a trait that would betray me many times over the next few years.

His gaze unexpectedly latched onto mine and I was instantly ashamed at my behavior. I wished I had not sent such silly looks at him and I looked away. I could feel his eyes on me for several moments more before the tension was released. He glanced back at the semi-circle of adults surrounding us and I exhaled.

"Married?" I asked quietly. The information smashing into me, for the second time in two days, like a high speed train. My voice was low and I could feel the acid sliding from my lips. It was a deliberate action of disrespect. Mother glanced sharply up at me.

Her expression were instantly angry. I expected to be punished tonight, the emotion pulsing through me was too much to silence; why not let a few rude tones slip by here and there? In a sense, I feel pity for my mother. She obviously had not anticipated my apparent disrespect in front of such a pure blooded family. Maybe she had hoped I would remain silent.

Afterall, silence is a woman's trade. If only it were a trait I was accomplished in. Many times mother has been forced to slap me because I can not keep my mouth shut. She tells me over and over again that I must be silent, "Women do not have opinions, women do not make important decisions, women never share their thoughts, and women never defy, argue, or stand against men." But why, I will ask, why can women not express their point of view, or be equal next to men, why must women stand in second place while men always win the gold, why is the most ill-minded man's brain worth more than the brightest witch? And through her scowl she will give me the answer I knew before it came to be. Somehow the answer has become as normal as a bird flying and a fish swimming. And Mother will reply, "Because women do not have opinions, we are silent, we live only to serve our husband as best we can."

As I have been trained in this philosophy, I now know that I am expected—no—forced into a silent, acceptable young woman who never disagrees with a male of any class—mudbloods excluding. But it seems so wrong, why are women always so weak?

Looking back I count my stubbornness as one of the few meager blessings I received. As they were far and few it seems ironic that my ignorance should come in the form of a blessing and a curse. Perhaps there were a few moments where someone was watching over me.

"Yes," Mother said sternly, all trace of the jovial—but fake—smile she plastered on gone," You are to be married almost a year from today."

My face remained placid as my thoughts raged inside of me. _A year?_ Though this was not new news, I could not help the torrent of despair washing over me again. I was to be married as soon as I left Hogwarts? No chance to live my life the way I had hoped to? No chance of exploring the world? This was what I had been working so hard my whole life for? All those tedious hours, dragging long into the night, were for naught? The knowledge I have learned would be useless; the only thing I would serve as, in his manor, was his personal servant and carrier of an heir.

I should have expected this years ago, it is a tradition afterall, but foolishness and ignorance has blinded me. I did not want to see this ominous end but I knew it was there all the same. Perhaps, I had hoped that if my grades were good enough, I might have been spared from this fate—a silly thought—but it seems that nothing, excluding my running away and joining a nunnery, could possibly save me.

Something was slowly trickling into my stomach, coiling and uncoiling harshly—twisting around my stomach and compressing my organs to the point of pain. A mixture of emotions bubbled and twisted in my stomach. Yet, a rubbery numbness was slipping disgustedly down my arms. My mind was filling with feelings resembling anger, self-pity, and a strange longing to run from this place and never look back. Perhaps if I had listened to the third suggestion, I might have avoided this all entirely but, reality is cruel and though the thought is taunting me, it is transparent. Running away would have solved nothing.

And then, there would be no story to tell. No diary of great importance to read and no man to tear my heart to pieces and then tape it back together. But, still, I lie here broken—shattered—and it seems that not even time—nature's greatest medicine—can bring me back together.

"A year," Mr. Malfoy began," is not a very long time. It may seem like ages from now"—I did not agree—" but really the time will fly by. I therefore advise you to spend your days wisely, get to know each other a bit before the big day or you'll end up like me and my wife; we fought for almost half a year before we finally fell in love,"

He laughed coldly. I doubted strongly that they were truly in love. _True _love was not found in arranged marriages. It was not made after a marriage because of nescessity but experienced before marriage. It was enjoyed and savored to the fullest extent not thrust upon you. _True_ love was what I had hoped for ever since I was a child but my vision was cloudy when I had made that wish; for when has a pureblood ever been 'true'? And a pureblood is the only type of man I will be allowed to marry.

Mrs. Malfoy glared at her husband before interrupting," What he means to say is that we _are_ expecting an heir soon and it will be easier if you know each other a little better than now."

I shuddered. A child? With this man? I knew that it was a condition I would be forced into with this marriage but the truth of it all had only just slammed into me. I barely knew him now and doubt coursed through my body at the thought that I would know him any better at the end of the year. It was just like my mother to shove me in a mess like this and expect me to immediately become intimate friends with this man. _I _could barely make friends as it was.

"We've arranged for you both to share an attached room at Hogwarts. This should make it easier for you to get to know each other," Mr. Malfoy smirked suggestively, bringing a grimace to my features.

"Oh Abraxas, you're upsetting the poor girl!" Tatiana, Mrs. Malfoy, laughed teasingly.

He chuckled," But dear, it's going to happen sometime, I expect an heir soon after they're married. Besides, he's such a handsome boy and Rose is so beautiful; it'll be a miracle if they can resist for more than a month,"

I almost choked on my own saliva. My gaze immediately snapped to my fiance's but he seemed unperturbed as always by this new bit of information. I, on the other hand, could feel my stomach clenching to the size of a golfball.

Tatiana laughed at his comment," Do you remember when we were told of the arranged marriage?" he smiled widely as she spoke," We didn't even last a week!"

"Yes," he smirked," I remember quite well. But who was I to resist such a gorgeous witch?"

I recalled Mr. Malfoy's previous comment about how they hadn't fallen in love until six months after their marriage. So they had been engaging in sexual contact before that? The idea made me shudder, I couldn't imagine being so vulnerable in front of someone I barely knew. Deeply loving someone and trusting them enough to give them your innocence was a far cry from the Malfoy's opinion on the subject. Had Severus already lost his virginity? I hoped in vain that my fiancé would not force me into non-concensual sex but I had a terrible feeling that he didn't give a damn about my silly desires of losing my virginity to a man I loved and trusted.

Mrs. Malfoy blushed," What about you, Penelope?" she asked.

My mother glanced up, her smile faltering slightly," I had Rosie out of wedlock."

Tatiana smiled as if it was something to be proud of," Before Dan left," Mrs. Malfoy edited. Mother forced a laugh though it was eminent she did not find this funny in the slightest. I could see her eyes ice over, she was always very sensitive about discussing Father since he left us when I was only a baby; a week before their marriage. Mother was crushed and wouldn't leave her room for a month.

I never knew him so I felt no emotion towards him. He was just like any other man, they were all the same. Spineless selfish jerks. There seemed to be no true gentlemen left. They would cheat on you and, as their wife, it was only expected for who would expect a man to stay content with only one woman?

I caught a few words from the adult's conversation and instantly felt revolted when I realized they were still discussing their sex lives. I tuned them out again.

My eyes wandered traitorously over to my fiancé. I guess I was lucky. He wasn't ugly, wasn't gorgeous of course, but he wasn't terrible looking. In fact, with a little bit of work, he might look quite handsome.

He had a sharp jaw and thin eyebrows, exaggerating every emotion, though he shared nothing of what he felt. He seemed to be slender, not conditioned, but thin and almost unhealthy looking. He was very pale too, as if he had not seen the sun for years. And his nose was slightly hook shaped, rising upward a bit on the ridge. Although I thought that it suited his dignified appearance. His features were prominent and sharp giving him a bony look but always emotionless. Even his eyes were grey orbs of steel, a closed door. But they were entrancing all the same and I found myself staring at them for a while, until he gazed penetratingly over at me and I shrunk into myself in humiliation.

He really was quite handsome, the only true fault I could find with him was that his hair was oily and shiny as if he didn't wash it very often though I suppose that such a trivial thing is easily fixable.

I suppose we were expected to talk whilst our parents laughed and reminisced of old times but it was evident from the very beginning that he would not be talking to me and I was not going to talk to him. My opinion wasn't worth anything and I dared not talk first—whether I was influenced by my Mother's strict manners or I was just too intimidated to begin a conversation is a mystery I have long forgotten the answer to.

So we stood and watched, pretending to be even slightly interested in our parent's conversation though my mind wandered to other places.

I wondered what life at Hogwarts would be like, sharing a room with this man. Were we really supposed to have sex before we were married as—most likely—both our parents had done? Why was so much expected of me at such a young age?

My mother-in-law-to-be's voice crashed into my thoughts," What are you two still standing here for?" she laughed as if she had just noticed us," Go over there and get to know each other. Just don't get too carried away."

I felt an urge to roll my eyes at the idea, as I would have done in a dream but never in real life. A small wave of giggles rolled through the trio but we stayed silent. I, personally, did not find the idea of us engaging in such an act, on only our first meeting, as appealing as our parents thought.

I turned around and was surprised to see that he had already laid himself across the couch at the opposite side of the room. I followed briskly over to him and sunk into a flanking armchair, my eyes trailing awkwardly around the room, lingering on the blazing fire in front of them for a moment.

A flicker of movement caught my attention and I realized that Severus had indulged in a book. I sighed wistfully, wishing I had brought one of my own. I watched him read for a few minutes and was surprised to find that he was actually a quick reader. I don't know why it surprised me so much but I didn't expect a boy with such a large fortune to spend his time buried in books. A twinge of curiosity arose in me.

A well-timed glare from Mother made me decide to interrupt his privacy and bombard him with 'getting acquainted' questions. I doubted he would be pleased but I feared Mother would be angrier if I did not obey her.

"My name is Rose Montregal," I said suddenly.

He didn't look up. I was sure he had heard me. I didn't dare repeat myself and sound rude so I waited patiently for an answer. It never came.

I cleared my throat awkwardly, not used to having to start a conversation with someone. It was not my custom to go out of my way to talk to someone, especially a boy. Silence was a woman's trade.

"I don't quite remember what your name was," I hinted hopefully, knowing full well that he had never told me what his name was as he had never spoken a single word to me. I already knew his name—mother had forced me to repeat it hundreds of times before we arrived. She had assured me that he would not take having to repeat his name kindly.

"Severus Snape," he answered curtly, never looking up from his book.

I furrowed my eyebrows at his choice of last names. Was he not a Malfoy? I decided against indulging further into the subject but eyed the book Severus was reading hungrily.

"What are you reading?" I asked curiously, part of me actually wanting to know instead of trying to make random conversation.

He lifted the book slightly in response so that I could read the title. _Dark Magic of the Ages_. I forced myself to remain emotionless so that I would not display my apparent distaste. I was not fond of Dark Arts. Was Severus training to become a Death Eater? Though I had been invited to become one of the Death Eater's personal whores, I had been saved from the fate when my father left us, mother had told them she couldn't handle the stress.

"Interesting," I said quietly.

I realized that I would have to be the sole supporter of all conversation or we would sit in silence 'till our parents were ready to leave. I sincerely doubted that Mother would be happy if she heard about that.

"You are a seventh year, right?" I asked timidly.

He nodded. I stared at him blankly for a moment, waiting for him to return the question. He didn't.

"So am I," I forced a smile. I was running out of ideas for conversation. Why was it so hard to talk to him? Besides the fact that he was a complete stranger and obviously disliked my company (and most probably my existence all together), he was still my fiancé and a human being nonetheless. Why should he be so hard to talk to? He wasn't really that intimidating.

"You know Lucius, right?" I asked, prancing on something we held in common, though I had only seen Lucius walking in the hallways and flirting with the prettier girls of my age. But I remembered seeing Lucius and Severus talking a bit between classes.

He glanced at me as if I was completely insane," What do you think?" he growled.

For a second I was confused. It was a reasonable question to ask, had I embarrassed or insulted him somehow? The confusion must have shown on my face for Severus sighed and looked pointedly at Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

It hit me.

Mr. and Mrs. _Malfoy._ Lucius _Malfoy._

I couldn't have felt stupider. I visibly shrunk into my chair under his sarcastic glare and my cheeks flushed brightly. He looked back to his book, most likely thinking he was engaged to one of the most ill-witted girls of his age.

I certainly wasn't of course, in fact I was very clever, if not the smartest in my year—which made it even more embarrassing. I don't know why I hadn't associated the fact that Severus lived with the Malfoys meant that he also lived with Lucius so they obviously knew each other. Most likely, they were very close—Lucius had always been quite brotherly towards Severus but I had never really paid attention to it before.

Once again, I yearned for a book so that I may too read into a distant reality and ignore the new "crisis" sitting in the couch across from me. And so that I may hide my embarrassment behind the cover of a book but I had no such book and summoning one from home was difficult to do from so far away besides being utterly rude.

Though _he_ doesn't seem to care about manners, I thought disdainfully, eyeing Severus critically.

Well, I couldn't just sit here awkwardly, wishing I was ten miles away. I sighed quietly and racked my brain for something else we could converse upon that might last more than one abrupt answer.

"Do you like to read?" I asked, knowing I would receive the same raised eyebrow I had when I asked him about Lucius Malfoy. I had set myself up purposefully, knowing he would think I was insane again but only because I hoped that I might be able to bring out a sentence or two on a subject I thrived upon.

He, as predicted, rose a distinguished eyebrow then eyed the book in his hands as if it were answer enough—which it was—before going back to his reading. I quickly picked up on the subject.

"I love to read," I mentioned casually, part of me wondering if he would be courteous enough to summon me a book from his library. His reaction was quite the opposite if it could be called a reaction at all.

Because he gave no reaction at all, not even a flicker of his eyes in my direction. I wondered if he had heard me. Unless he was engulfed in his book so deep that he could not be distracted, it was impossible for him to have not heard me. I sincerely doubted it was the former.

My mind lingered on the idea of repeating myself to see if he would react. I glanced warily at the adults at the other end of the room, it was quite obvious that they had had too much to drink. I decided to risk it.

"I said, I love to read," I tried to force him into looking at me with my eyes but he stayed persistent and showed no recognition that I was even there.

A wicked curiosity was biting at me and I succumbed quickly to it's will. Afterall, Mother wouldn't have enough sense to hit me tonight, not with all the alcohol she was consuming.

I cleared my throat loudly and spoke even louder," I love to read," I repeated yet again.

There was a reaction.

"Are you mentally ill, woman?" he snapped, annoyance engraved into every feature. His eyes flashed dangerously.

The reality of what I had done was a slap in the face and I found myself astonished at the rudeness I had just exhibited. Pray to Rowenna he didn't mention this to Mother.

Silence was my reply.

Wrong answer.

He slapped his book down on the couch beside him and leaned over towards me," I asked you a question," he hissed," Answer it,"

My mind was spinning for an answer that would not suggest any hint of emotion besides repent. I was not quick enough, I couldn't quite seem to think with those eyes piercing into me.

"What is wrong with you?" he snarled and paused," Or am I engaged to a brainless wench?" I recoiled ever so slightly and his sneer grew maliciously at my reaction.

"I'm sorry," I answered lamely, the only answer I could think of to calm Severus down. I meant to continue but he cut me off before I could open my mouth again.

"I'm sorry what?" he sneered," You're sorry you're an unintelligent whore?"

I felt some emotion in my chest straining to be set free—to lash out at his rude comments but I knew this would be regular treatment from a man of this family. It was regular treatment from mother, why should I have expected better? Besides, in the midst of my fury, there was defeat—because he was right. That's what all women became when they entered an arranged marriage. Most were never fortunate to have a caring husband and true relationships in arranged marriages were rare. So I, like the rest, was just _his_ _personal_ sex servant to call at will, because that's what our main use was, whether I liked it or not. Whether it was right or not . . .

"Can't you speak?" He spat disgustedly," Not a minute ago, I couldn't shut you up and now you won't say a word."

My lips pursed together, trying to still the anger building inside of me. Anger was foolish at this point. I must show repent, remorse, at least regret. Oh, if only I had known he had such a temper, I feared he might become violent any second.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. Just an innocent lie.

"Yes, I know," he ground out angrily," But for what? That seems to be the issue under discussion,"

"I did not mean to insult you Severus—"

"Did I give you permission to call me by my first name?! Master Snape or Sir," he hissed.

The next three words were so venomously slow and precise that I blanched on the spot, "Take your pick," he spat.

And with that said, silence engulfed us. I bowed my head politely and refrained from any conversation the rest of the night and he seemed content to just read. Three hours passed that way. By the time I left, my back ached from the straight posture I had been holding. It was my defiance, my small way of showing that he did not control me—that I was not inferior to him as he made me feel. Ironic that my defiance should have the most—if not only—effect on me.

As we said goodbye, I made sure to add a lingering pressure on the word 'Sir'. He caught it and made no reply. Only to glare sardonically at me as Mother held onto my arm and I apparated us back home.

His face stayed in my mind for the rest of the night, telling me to 'take my pick' over and over again. But I felt like he was not telling me to pick on names but instead on my future.

Run away and never see any of my friends again or marry the man who already seemed to harbor an intense dislike for me.

Take your pick, you silly girl.

Take your pick . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Memoirs of Regret

Chapter 3

Don't Be Stupid Girl

**Naive** _adj_

Having or showing an excessively simple and trusting view of the world and human nature, often as a result of youth and inexperience.

**September 1, 1968**

It is easy for me to believe that, after the startling news about my marriage to Mr. Snape, that I calmly set aside my dreams for the future to make room for this unexpected event—for it would surely take precedence over any of my own wishes. Then, at the least, I could have said that I was one step closer to becoming a woman for surely any respectable pureblood woman would have gracefully, if not happily, welcomed the marriage. I suppose, it should have been a particularly easy feat for a girl like myself, coming from such a family as mine, to enter marriage to Mr. Snape as it will raise my social standing substantially.

Yet, here I sit, staring, quite ashamedly, into the reflection of a girl that I know did not accept specified marriage with the least bit of grace. If I could, I would stare past her sunken, blood shot eyes into the scenery passing by but no matter what angle I take to the window, she is still sitting there staring back at me. The strangest thing, is that she seems to be blaming me for causing her ill fate and, having a redundant quantity of dignity within myself, I can not help but glare accusingly back at her which only serves to deepen her own accusations and so on and so forth.

I wish deeply that I could look though her but she stands so adamantly in my way that even squinting does not help; to my dismay, her features seem to become even clearer. With a defeated sigh, I am forced to retreat to the opposite side of the cabin, nearest to the door. I dislike sitting here far more than I dislike the girl in the window because the door rattles on and off its hinges with a series of neverending clacking interrupted by an occasional clunk as the train hits a crack in the rails. Furthermore, one cannot possibly hope to get any small amount of sleep because each time one lays their head either upon the wall or the seat, the bumps and rattles of the train have a tendency of causing one's head to knock persistently back and forth between the seat and the wall, no matter what position one obtains. Consequently, not only does one not gain an ounce of sleep but they find themselves the unfortunate companion of a painfully thudding headache.

Nevertheless, I am convinced to stay firmly planted by these noisy doors by the prospect of suffering another glaring contest with my own reflection. I wish I could at least say that I had a reason to look so miserable. I cannot even admit to attempting an appearance of good mental, emotional, and physical health this morning. Nor can I say that I spent my summer enjoying life to its fullest before I was chained down in marriage, though I genuinely wish I could.

However, I can admit to one thing; if anyone were to look back upon my recent behavior these past weeks, they would have no difficulty in testifying that I acted like a complete cow. In fact, I would express no surprise if they were to inform me that I was an unmitigated coward towards my marriage, preferring to cry and wallow in self-pity rather than spend my summer doing something useful.

And indeed I cried, hours upon hours of sobbing. I blubbered 'till my voice was raw and scratchy and my muscles ached with the simple exertion of standing. It is hard to remember a moment where I wasn't crying or frowning intently at walls as if I could change anything that way.

I wish someone might have been around to slap me and tell me that this wasn't the end, that I was making a mistake, and that nothing good was going to get the slightest bit better as long as I moped around holding pity parties for myself. But alas! Though there is indeed someone to slap me, and I daresay she would do so without question or concern if I asked her of it, Mother would never be able to give me the advice I needed. She could tell me I was selfish and spoiled, a rotten devil child or any other name she could spit at me but though they were effective only in scaring me into silence; they offered none of the comfort I needed and wanted.

So, I struggled through the summer, trying—weakly, I admit—to withhold my façade of indifference to the whole affair, though I'm sure Mother knew better. I sobbed whenever I could find an empty room and though I always warded the rooms, my silencing charms were not always strong enough to last throughout my whole stay. I'm positive Mother heard me at least once or twice because she made a point of looking at me with the upmost dismay, as if she couldn't believe there was any possible way we were blood related, nevertheless mother and daughter.

Still, I can't honestly say that her new behavior towards me is much worse than before. Truthfully, ever since Father left, and possibly before, she's looked at me as nothing more than a burden. It seems that she has put it in her head that as long as I am alive, her life shall always be miserable. Although I have been aware of my impact on her happiness and therefore done most everything in my power to help make her life easier—even hiding from her for three days so as to give the impression that I was not there as she requested—nothing works. Each day, her eyes seem to sink lower into the wrinkles beneath them and her lips become only a thin line beneath her nose.

I dutifully blame myself for her lack of laughter and happiness. Obviously, there is no one else that could have caused her unhappiness except I; and she has gracefully admitted several times that I am the bane of her dreadful existence.

So, you see, in several ways, this wedding will be a good thing. For Mother, especially, she will no longer have to worry about her deteriorating status in the community, nor will she have to take care of me. I will be gone, possibly forever, and perhaps, she will be able to live the rest of her years in peace. For me, there are not many good reasons to marry Mr. Snape, though I suppose, it is nice to know that Mother will be so happy, even if it is at my expense. However, as Father always said, "Happiness is the product of much sacrifice."

It's also rather comforting to know that I shall have a place to go after school ends. Even though I had thought about traveling to America and helping Salem return to its magic potential, I suppose it is much easier to stay at home. I will not have to worry about getting food or water or shelter as Mr. Snape will surely provide it all. Perhaps, he shall even be a very gentlemanly husband to his wife, and I shall come to enjoy my marriage to him.

However, if I was to be honestly truthful, and if first impressions are anything to judge by, I cannot see Mr. Snape as being anything more than a self righteous, irritable, and dreadfully cynical young man with no more care or concern for me than mother.

S

When the Hogwarts Express has finally screeched to a bumpy stop, effectively dislodging all of its passengers from their seats as if in warning, I stay seated. It is of no use to try and push and squeeze myself through the crowd, meanwhile getting tossed everywhichway by the boisterous students. No, I'm much rather wait a few minutes for them to pass. It's strange, one would think that the first day of school would be a rather ominous affair and yet, judging by the pushing and shoving going on outside the cabin, they are all, for some reason, dreadfully excited to be going to school again. However, I suppose, I can understand their joy, partly, at least. For I too can feel a hard lump burning and pulsing inside my stomach; it's the feeling that I am almost home. Surely, there is no other place that I could as safely say is my home then Hogwarts? For the home is supposed to give a sense of security and love, with Mother I feel nothing of the sort, only at Hogwarts.

Outside the window, I can see all the first years already being sorted into groups for the boat ride. They're so nervous and eager that many cannot help but jump from foot to foot to contain their excitement. Our giant caretaker is laughing as he pats one of the boys on the back, who promptly buckles forward from the force, only causing the giant to laugh harder.

There are still people rushing through the hallways but I open the compartment door. So many faces I don't know pass by me. They eye me curiously for a moment—some disdainfully—before walking on. I ignore them and concentrate, instead, on getting my bags.

But the rack is too high and though my fingertips scratch futiley at the edge, unless I step all the way out into the hallway, I will not be able to reach it. Someone bumps into me, nearly causing me to lose my balance and tumble into the compartment; I glance over my shoulder but no one looks and I cannot tell who it was. Inching slightly backwards into the aisle, I strain to reach for the bag again but I attempts are no better than before.

Suddenly a large hand is on my waist and I feel myself being pushed slightly to the left. My cheeks subconsciously heat up.

"Let me help you," the boy says and he swiftly grabs my bag. He carries it with ease as if it doesn't weigh over forty pounds.

"Thank you," I say, forcing a small smile through my blush.

He nods. I can't recognize him, though I've definitaly seem him before. He looks to be about my age, maybe a sixth year but no younger. His hair is a deep brown, maybe black, and it's so shaggy and messy, one might think he was a dog. As if on cue, he shakes his hair and two bright blue eyes are revealed from beneath the fringe. He rather reminds me of a little boy on Christmas. However, although his facial features are still innocently boyish, the rest of him is not. He is muscular but not overly so, just enough that I can't help but let my eyes linger there for a moment or two.

However, I quickly regain my composure, though I'm blushing again because he's smirking as if he knows exactly what I was looking at. I realize that he's rather self absorbed and although he is nice to look at, I can't imagine talking to him. So I thank him again and make an attempt to grab my bag.

It's heavy so I stumble, until the boy laughs and grabs it easily out of my hands. Part of me wants to argue and insist that I carry my own bag but part of me also knows that as a woman, I am supposed to let men carry my bags. So I sigh and quell my protests. He smiles, and to my absolute horror, holds out his arm to me. I blink, surprised and trapped.

I did not want to be seen walking off the train with him as an escort as he was surely not a pureblood—no self-respecting pureblood would dress in muggle jeans. However, I, as a woman, was not supposed to refuse when a man made such an offer. But did that count for anyone other than a pureblood too?

I guessed that the best thing to do would be to just take his arm but immediately release it once we had reached the exit. However the minute my arm slipped around his, he tightened his grip and it became clear to me that, without a struggle, I would not be able to escape his side until he so chose. My heart sunk.

So he lead me on down the hall and out the door, swinging my trunk as if it were nothing more than a picnic basket. Outside, I was glad to see that most of the students had already left and would therefore not be a witness to my mortification. However, of the few that remained, Mr. Snape was unfortunately among them. I considered making a dash for him, perhaps I could take refuge besides him for a few moments until the boy latched to my arm went away but I did not have possession of my bag and could therefore, go nowhere.

With a defeated sigh, I let the boy lead me away from Mr. Snape and over to a group of people who I distinctly recall to be Gryffindors.

"Oh," he said," I almost forgot, I'm Sirius,"

I stifled my amusement.

"Rose Bellant." I replied.

He nodded and stopped walking, "If you want, you can come on the carriage with me and my friends."

I glanced curiously at his Gryffindor friends and decided instantly that I should not like to be caught within a mile radius of the group. So, I politely shook my head.

"Actually, I have friends waiting for me, I'd shouldn't."

His smile dropped slightly, "Are you sure, we've got plenty of room. Prongs doesn't usually—"

Rather than inquire as to who could possibly name their child Prongs, I curtly shook my head again.

"I can't, sorry,"

It was at this moment that I realized Sirius was quite possibly not going to let me leave. Like the little boy at Christmas, he looked especially stubborn right now. I wondered if he was going to insist that I stay.

"Well, let me carry your bag over there, it's pretty heavy."

I resisted the urge to sigh again, "I was quite capable of carrying my bag before I arrived and I assure you, I shall be just as competent now. Thank you for your assistance, good bye."

He looked crestfallen and shocked but still stubborn enough to make me wonder if he would press the issue. Luckily, after a moment of consideration, he handed over my trunk without further protest.

However, when I glanced back over towards the carriages, I could see Mr. Snape looking at me as if I were the most wretched thing he had ever come across.

I suppose I was.

S

I can't remember the last time I attended the Welcome Feast. Surely my first two or three years. However, around fifth year, when I met Regulus, I stopped attending them. They were noisy and everyone was boisterous with superfluous excitement. The food is simply not worth the headache that results from continued exposure to such enthusiasm.

Instead, over the years, I have found myself wandering the more desolate areas of the castle. Some of the towers that I have never known existed have impossibly beautiful views of the lake. Regulus and I often meet up in such towers though I think that tonight—because the moon has hidden itself behind a thick layer of clouds, the owlery is more appealing.

I can still hear the chaos from the Great Hall, even though I am corridors away—I am grateful to be over here rather than trapped in the midst of their screams.

After a couple more minutes of impatient waiting, I cast a _Tempus_ upon the wall and the illusion of a clock appears; the second hand ticks away toward nine o'clock. He's late. Perhaps he has forgotten. Should I venture up to the Owlery myself? If he does not show, all my waiting shall be for nought, but if he does and I have left then he will be angry and there is not telling when we will be able to meet again.

I wait a few more minutes, passing the time by transfiguring passing spiders into small blue bows and hairy, mutant roses. I flick my wand to turn a particularly large passing fly into a paper airplane. It soars high above my head before tipping down into a dive. I'm about to use a levitation spell to prolong its flight when the airplane suddenly bursts into flames.

I startle and look around. Regulus is walking down the hallway, the obvious caster of the _Incendio _spell that destroyed my paper airplane. He's laughing softly, whether at my surprised expression or my previous display, I don't know.

"I see how productive you've become in my absense," he smirks, glancing pointedly at the small pile of bows and roses on the wall opposite me. The corners of my lips quirk upwards slightly.

"A few measly spiders won't go amiss, I assure you."

He smiles in response and I flick my wand to banish the items. They, along with the ashes of my once airborne paper airplane promptly disappear with a small pop.

"I hope you haven't been waiting too long," he says politely, though we both know I have.

Not sure how to reply, I choose to wisely remain silent. I'm disappointed that I was to wait for so long but not angry, and certainly not at him, only at me, if anyone at all. Nevertheless, I feel no need to hear an apology nor any desire to have to go through the tedious process of forgiveness. However, it seems he does not know me well enough because I can see an apology in his eyes; or perhaps, I wonder, he only requests forgiveness because he is a gentleman and that is the proper thing for a gentleman to do when he has kept a lady waiting so long. Needless to say, I don't stop him because as a woman, I have no right or reason to interfere with what a man says or does. I can only stay silent.

He sighs, the cheerful expression sliding off his face. A deep breath to prepare his apology and I wait patiently.

"I am sorry, Rose, I couldn't get away. You know how Lucius can be; he thinks I'm meeting with a secret lover and I couldn't escape his attention until half-way through the feast."

I nod, not sure whether to speak nor what I should say if I were. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my hesitation is enough to spur him to continue.

"I truly didn't mean to leave you here so long. If I could, I would never have attended the feast at all but then Malfoy and Nott . . ." he grimaced, "Well, it's nothing to worry about, I'm here now. Where would you like to go tonight?"

I suppose I could have inquired as to what exactly Malfoy and Nott had been speaking about before Regulus trailed off but in truth, I didn't want the burden. Although I cared deeply for Regulus and I was concerned, I couldn't carry any more sorrow than I did now. My façade of passivity was already weakened by this summer's events, to have to carry Regulus's troubles as well, especially when I knew how deeply woeful they could be was too much. Moreover, he wouldn't have told me even if I had asked. Many of Regulus's friends like Nott and Lestrange were associated with the Dark Lord; Regulus would never put me in a position where I could potentially be in danger just because he needed someone to talk to.

It is a cruel life we live in. I often wish Regulus would tell me his secrets; he needs someone to talk to. I can see the effects bottling it up has on him. He looks tired and wilted, his face has sunken in and that young mischievous look I used to love has long since begun to fade. He has suffered beyond his years the knowledge of great despair collects in the wrinkles of his forehead and the shadowy depths of his eyes. It is a terrible thing indeed to know exactly what he needs but be forced to stay silent for his safety and mine.

"I should think the Owlery would be nice." I say.

He nods and extends his arm, unlike this morning, I take it without a second thought, "Excellent choice,"

We walk down the corridor, our shoes clicking softly against the cold stone floor. The noise from the Great Hall falls into muffled silence behind us as we venture further and further away. For the moment I am content with not talking. I wish to listen to the sounds around us for it doesn't feel silent at all. It's as if silence isn't the absence of sound but truly a whole new sound altogether. Like the color white. It can be considered the lack of color but truthfully how could white be any less colorful than all the other colors of the rainbow? Surely, white is but a whole new type of color just as silence is truly a different manner of noise. Just as wonderful, if not more, than any kind of noise to be heard.

However, I am the first to break the silence.

"How is my dear cousin Bellatrix?" I ask.

I can hear his smile, "As sane as ever."

S

"Miss Bellant?"

I freeze. I fear it is a Prefect, I am, afterall, out after hours. Perhaps, he'll let me go with only a small tap on the wrist. But no, it is not a Prefect, he sounds too old. It is Professor Dumbledore.

The blood in my veins seems to turn to ice and I can feel my heart fall several stories down to the pit of my stomach. He's watching me curiously, probably looking for my reaction. Do I look guilty? I try to force myself into impassivity but I can tell it won't work on Dumbledore. He's too wise and I am far too young.

I only hope Regulus has escaped to his common room.

"Miss Bellant," he repeats and this time I reply.

"Yes, Professor?"

I don't know why he's here or how he knew I would be here, by the owlery. Normally, Professors tend to stray towards the corridors nearest the House Common Rooms and the entrance to the kitchens. Why was he roaming so far out here . . . if not to catch me?

"We missed you at the Welcome Feast," he says brightly, as if he has only just told me that it was quite sunny this morning.

I frown, how did he know I didn't attend? Why was he looking to see if I did? Why was he even concerned? Something is wrong about all this, Dumbledore knows something, I only wish I knew what.

"Yes," I reply, pausing slightly to finish my lie but hopefully not enough to reveal that it was indeed not the truth," I've just run up to the Owlery to check on my owl."

He folds his hands behind his back, " May I inquire as to why the journey took you three hours?"

I glance sharply up at him, "I was talking with my owl, I wanted to make sure she was comfortable here."

I know I've been caught but this charade of lies is far easier than telling Dumbledore the truth. I wish I knew why though. I wish I knew why Dumbledore is so curious as to my absence at the Welcome Feast or why he wants me to tell him I was talking with Regulus? Where has this sudden interest in my life come from?

"I see, and what is her name?" he asks politely.

I frown, "Who?"

"Your owl,"

"Oh, umm, Juliet,"

"Hmm, well, as it is now past nine and therefore after hours, I must insist you go back to your room. I suppose a detention is in order but, tonight being your first night back at Hogwarts I shall conveniently forget I ever saw you wandering the hallways so late at night." He smiled gently, his eyes twinkling.

"Thank you Professor."

"Run along now." He said and I was willing to do just that but as I turned to go, he stopped me.

"Oh, and Miss Bellant, I want to remind you that if there's anything, anything at all, you'd ever like to tell me, my door is always open."

I nod stiffly. He stares at me for a long moment before he bows his head and strolls off down the hallway. I watch him leave before I make my own exit.

The walk back to my new room (an old Prefects room) that I share with Mr. Snape—the Malfoy's idea of giving us ample opportunity to get to know each other better—is cold and lonely. The hallways are quiet except for the creaking of wooden doors and the small shuffling of portraits as their owners rearrange themselves in their sleep.

Luckily, the old Prefect rooms remind me somewhat of the Ranvenclaw rooms. The colors are black, blue, and green though Blue, I am happy to say, is the predominant color. My room specifically, which stems out from the main entry room, is decorated in solely Ravenclaw colors. There isn't much furniture, only a bed, a bookshelf and a beau—which could have very well belonged to Helga Hufflepuff by the looks of it—but the simplicity of the bedroom gives it a spacious touch. I like it, though I am rather envious of the big comfortable chair I saw in Mr. Snape's room.

As if on cue, I hear the door open and close from the living room. When I open my door to see who it is, Mr. Snape has already settled himself in the couch and a fire is crackling in front of him. I think about retreating back to the safety of my own bedroom but then am reminded that very soon, I will be married to this man and this whole affair would be a lot easier if we could at the very least, manage a friendship of sorts.

So, I push myself to sit besides him on the couch. He tries to ignore me for a few minutes, during which I wait patiently, until he finally acknowledged my presence.

"What?" he asks coldly. Though I honestly expected nothing less. It has become clear to me, between our first and second confrontations, that Mr. Snape is not very charismatically adept. Either that, or I am truly horrendous company.

"Nothing, I wish only to speak with you."

His tone is terse and curt, it is clear that I am not wanted, "You have done so, now leave."

I wait a few moments to see if he really wants me to leave but he makes no other comment so I speak again.

"Have you seen your room yet?"

Have you seen your room yet?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head stiffly, "No."

"They're magnificent, both yours and mine though I find that yours is much better suited for school than mine. A vanity mirror will do me no good in classes but I guess I'll find _some_ use for it."

I'm only trying to hold a decent conversation with him but it becomes increasingly difficult when I realize that he does not intend to contribute anything, himself. I am about to press on, hopefully to lure some type of response out of him but he beats me to it.

"They say that only the most narcissistic women will not admit to their own vanity." He says quietly.

"Then what do the others admit to?" I ask, half-afraid he might interpret my question as impudence.

Mr. Snape rolls his eyes, "Nothing. A woman's secrets are secrets because they remain unspoken. How do you expect _me_ to know of them? _You_ are the woman, not I."

I hesitate to respond, "Well, as a woman, I think that the most narcissistic women can not admit to her own pride because she does not believe in it. Perhaps only the plainest women recognize their beauty because they have none compared to the narcissistic one."

He looks at me for the first time today.

"You seem sure of yourself." He comments coldly after a moment, "Most women would not share their opinions yet _you_ have many things to say."

I frown nervously.

"I did not mean to offend-"

I am speaking quickly, worried my foolish boldness may have discouraged him from speaking with me but he interrupts me.

"Offend?" He sneers, "No, I'm amused by your naivety but be wary that most men do not tolerate a woman's opinion."

"I know," I reply quietly.

He raises an eyebrow curiously, "Yet you still share your thoughts despite it?"

I don't reply. He's right. The weight of failure settles heavily on my shoulders. I can see Mother standing right behind Severus, looking down at me with utmost disdain.

"Don't be stupid girl,"

He stands up and leaves the room.


End file.
